This House to Let

Spencer’s smile was more amused than ever, as he regarded his genial friend. Spencer was only thirty, and Tommy was at least old enough to be his father. But there were times when the younger man thought he saw more clearly than the elder.

“Let us put it at this, Tommy. Mrs L’Estrange, being in somewhat straitened circumstances, supplements her meagre income by card-playing, at which I have no doubt she is an adept.”

And here, the usually placid Tommy interposed hotly: “You may say of Mrs L’Estrange what you like. But, if you propose to offer any derogatory remarks about Miss Keane, I would rather not listen to them.”

And Spencer kept a curb on his tongue. Was this fat, comical-looking little man, a most unromantic figure, violently in love with Miss Stella Keane, and her sworn champion? Far be it from him to disturb his faith in this seductive siren, if it were so.

“It’s all right, old chap,” he said quietly. “I am not going to make any remarks, derogatory or otherwise, about Miss Keane. I think I will adopt your suggestion. Let us adjourn to Mrs L’Estrange’s flat. If one loses fifty or a hundred one may have a good time.”

“You will see the most charming girl in London,” cried Esmond in enthusiastic tones. It struck Spencer, as a peculiar phase of his friend’s detachment, that, being in love with the girl himself, he should be so anxious to introduce her to a younger man, who might, presumably, be his rival.

For there could be no question of rivalry between the two men, apart from their ages. Spencer was tall, athletic, handsome: Tommy Esmond was – just Tommy Esmond – rotund, comical in appearance, and insignificant.

Moreover, Spencer had other qualifications which are not without their influence on the fair sex. He had a considerable fortune, and he was the next in succession to an ancient earldom. If the Earl of Southleigh, a widower, did not marry again, he would succeed to the title and estates. He was, in every sense of the term, an eligible parti.

The long, weary War was drawing to its close. The two men were dining at the fashionable “Excelsior” and were now about half-way through their dinner.

Spencer had the bearing of a soldier, and he would have been at the Front long ago, but no doctor could be found who would pass him. To all appearance, he possessed the thews and sinews of an athlete, but the stalwart, manly frame covered an incurably weak heart, which played him strange tricks at times. He was serving his country in the best way open to him, and doing good, sound clerical work in a Government Office.

“When do you suggest we should put in an appearance at Mrs L’Estrange’s?” he asked presently.

“It will take us another half-hour to get through this abundant meal. You will then have your coffee, and you will want a good and long cigar. We began rather late, you will remember. By the time you have got through your smoke, we will make a move. We shall then find them in full swing.”

Guy nodded, and went on with his dinner. He was quite willing to go to the L’Estrange flat: he had no other engagement this evening, and it would be something to do. But he was not greatly interested about meeting the most beautiful girl in London. In spite of his friend’s almost lyrical outbursts, he expected that Miss Stella Keane would prove a very ordinary young woman.

Suddenly Tommy Esmond uttered an exclamation. “Look, there they are,” he whispered excitedly across the table. “Mrs L’Estrange and her cousin. The man with them is Colonel Desmond, the man who won the Victoria Cross in the Boer War.”

Tommy’s round face was red with pleasurable emotion. Was there any doubt, thought Spencer, that the little man was tremendously smitten by the beautiful Miss Keane? Would it result in a marriage, he wondered? Tommy was well-off, and a person of some importance in his little social world. And if Miss Keane was as lovely as his fond imagination painted her, it was quite evident that she was poor. Penniless young girls have before now accepted the shelter of a safe home, even when offered by comical-looking little elderly men.

The three newcomers moved to a vacant table; Mrs L’Estrange, a woman of middle age, dressed rather more youthfully than was quite in good taste, their escort, a tall figure in khaki, very upright and soldierly in his bearing, in spite of his sixty years, and last, but by no means least, the beautiful Miss Keane.

Yes, at the first glance, the young man decided that she fully deserved his friend’s somewhat extravagant praise. If everybody in London was not raving over her, it was simply due to the fact that her cousin’s circle was not important, and that she had found nobody of sufficient social influence to launch her with the necessary cachet.

If she had made her début at one of the great houses, stamped with the approval of any one of London’s distinguished hostesses, Society journals would have gone into rhapsodies over her, and she would have been one of the reigning beauties of the hour, far, far beyond the aspirations of little Tommy Esmond.

His own special taste rather inclined towards fair women, his cousin, Lady Nina, of whom he was very fond, being a charming specimen of that type. But he was no bigot in the matter of feminine beauty, and he was prepared to admit that there were some dark women who could compare favourably with their blonde sisters.

But Stella Keane was not very dark. She had soft brown eyes, glossy dark hair, and a beautiful creamy complexion, a mouth like Cupid’s bow, revealing when she smiled, teeth of a dazzling ivory. Her figure would have been pronounced perfect by the most critical and fastidious artist.

“What do you think of her?” asked the delighted Tommy, after he had given his friend a decent time for his inspection.

Tommy was a man whose friends had got into the habit of smiling at him, even when they agreed with him. Spencer smiled at him quite as often as any of his acquaintance, but at this moment he was perfectly grave.

“You are quite right, old man, this time,” he said quietly. “She is really beautiful, and her carriage is splendid. She looks like a young Empress – or, rather, she fulfils one’s idea of what a young Empress should be.”

Tommy beamed. He drank in the words of unstinted praise like wine. The little blue eyes, usually devoid of expression, seemed suffused with a soft emotion. There was something pathetic in his devotion to this radiant young woman who looked like a youthful Empress.

“And she is as good and sweet as she looks,” he murmured in a voice that he could not keep steady. “When she talks to you seriously and lets you know what she really thinks and feels, by gad, Spencer, it makes a battered old worldling like myself feel unworthy to be in her presence. For she has a beautiful soul and mind as well as a beautiful body.”

Spencer could only look sympathetic. Poor little Tommy, he certainly seemed to talk like a lover. And what did Miss Keane think of it all? She must have more than a mere tolerance for him, or she would not have allowed him those peeps into her mind and soul to which he alluded with such unrestrained rapture.

It was some time before Esmond’s intense gaze attracted the attention of the party, and when it did, he was rewarded with a most affable smile from Mrs L’Estrange, and one of quite pronounced friendliness from Miss Keane. The Colonel also bestowed a genial nod.

After a pause, Tommy spoke somewhat ruefully. “I’m afraid this rather upsets our little plans. Mrs L’Estrange is a most conscientious diner: she will be here, at the lowest calculation, for an hour and a half, counting the coffee and cigarettes. They won’t be back at the flat under a couple. You wouldn’t care to wait so long.”

He looked rather wistfully at his companion. He, for his own part, would have waited half the night.

“Don’t let us commit ourselves, old man, but await events. We haven’t finished our dinner yet, and the service is deucedly slow. We can put in a lot more time. You can pay your respects at a fitting moment, and perhaps they will ask us to their table. I must confess I should like to see Miss Keane at closer quarters, and talk to her. Although I don’t expect she will reveal as much to me as she does to you.”

Tommy looked pleased again; he was very bent upon introducing Spencer to his beautiful young friend. It would come about presently: if not here, in the lounge. Already, Mrs L’Estrange had sent a few covert glances in the direction of their table. There was little doubt she knew who his companion was, and would be quite pleased to number him amongst her acquaintance.

“Has Miss Keane many admirers? She should have,” remarked Spencer presently. He noticed that Esmond’s eyes were always turned in the direction of that particular table.

“Not any serious ones, I fancy. A few young fellows send her flowers, but nothing more. It is quite an unsuitable ménage for a girl of her attractions. The majority of the habitués are middle-aged men who go there simply to gamble. The few young ones come for a flutter, and disappear when they have had enough.”

“Does the young lady play?”

“I have never seen her. She has told me scores of times that she loathes gambling. Her father ruined himself by it. I believe she is really very unhappy there. And I gather Mrs L’Estrange has not the best of tempers, particularly when she has had bad luck.”

“Hobson’s choice, I expect,” suggested Spencer sympathetically. Miss Keane was facing him, giving him ample opportunity to examine the beautiful countenance, and it struck him that there was an underlying expression of sadness on the perfect features, especially when in repose.

“I fear so,” was Esmond’s answer. “She is very reticent about her own affairs, as any gentlewoman would be. But from certain things she has let drop, I make out her own means are very slender, and her cousin’s hospitality is a boon to her.”

Half an hour passed, and Spencer lit a big cigar. The two men chatted on various topics. Mrs L’Estrange and the Colonel were still doing full justice to the excellent dishes offered them. Miss Keane was apparently satisfied, and sat quietly watching her companions, and throwing in an occasional remark.

And suddenly came the loud sound of maroons. Everybody started. A few seconds later the clamour and roaring of our own guns burst forth. There was no doubt as to what was happening. The Germans were making one of their unwelcome visits.

“By heavens, it’s a raid, and we are in the thick of it,” cried Tommy Esmond, rising excitedly. He was a nervous little man, and his face had grown a shade pale at the sound of the first boom.

In a few moments there was a stampede from the dining-room. The guests hurried as fast as they could to the basement and cellars.

Tommy, in his progress, was impeded by two burly men who were making their way leisurely. Spencer was a few feet in front of him, making for the crowd that surged round the doors. As he looked around the deserted tables, he saw Miss Keane standing alone, her eyes almost rigid with terror, her hands clutching convulsively at the back of the chair on which she had been sitting. It was evident that the Colonel had quickly removed Mrs L’Estrange from the scene of danger, and she had been too panic-stricken to follow them.

He crossed over to her. “Excuse me,” he said gently – “I am a friend of Mr Esmond’s. How is it you are alone? Did your companions desert you?”

“Colonel Desmond took my cousin, and told me to keep close behind them. When I got up, my limbs seemed unable to move. I feel as if I were paralysed.”

He took her arm and put it through his. It was evident she had been rendered immobile by terror.

“I will take care of you,” he said soothingly. “Downstairs you will be quite safe. But we will let this crowd get through first.”

Tommy Esmond came bustling up, all anxiety. Truth to tell, he did not feel over brave, but his anxiety for himself was lost in the contemplation of her white face and stricken eyes.

Slowly, cheered by the presence of the two men, a little colour flowed back into her cheeks, and she smiled wanly.

“I am a fearful coward,” she explained. “I go all to pieces in even the mildest thunderstorm.”

And it was in this wise, amid the crash of falling bombs, and the roar and clamour of our own guns, that Guy Spencer made the acquaintance of Stella Keane.